As I sat in the office, they gave me a sort of impromptu reception.
Ray Sanford strolled in, as fresh-complexioned as an Englishman. He was, they said, preparing a series of articles on the negro problem. And I met a little, bustling, sharp-eyed man, with much of the feminine about him,—his face lifted as if on an intuitive intellectual scent.... Carruthers Heflin ... he wore a close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard, like a stage-doctor. He was busy with a series of articles to be entitled, Babylons of To-day ... exposing the corruption of our modern American cities.
I spoke to them of my projected trip to Europe.
"I think you're foolish to run off to Europe just at this time in your life. Now is the time you should establish yourself here. Besides, Jarvis Mackworth has written us that you're writing a book while Derek, the Chicago millionaire, stakes you."
"Yes, that's true. But couldn't I write it in Europe as well as here?"
"You'd find too many distractions."
"Where would you go first?" asked Clara Martin.
"Paris!"
"That would be absolutely fatal for a young man of your disposition. You need to sit quiet and write for a few years ... you've been over the map too much already."
"Baxter has just been in here ... he's writing us a sensational novel exposing society. He spoke to me about you," Lephil remarked,—"said he wished we'd put a tag on you and ship you down to his Eden colony."